Stars and Pinstripes Forever

Don't laugh - I've always wanted to care about sports. More specifically, I've always wanted to care about spectator sports. But the thought of giving into any kind of mob mentality -- especially if it involves yelling "four-peat!" into crowds, saturating Twitter feeds with live updates of game scores, or artery-clogging amounts of junk food -- always gave me reason to look the other way.

My argument has always been that I love playing sports. I'm just not too keen on watching sports. I have tons of pleasant memories playing basketball all throughout grade school. I've popped vessels in my forearms playing volleyball. I'm pretty bad at soccer but have collected my fair share of grass stains from playing it. I can rally in tennis and have a decent backhand. I ran the 100m in track and completed a marathon a couple years back. I even had a really decent repertoire of tricks up my sleeve in handball at one point in my prepubescent life. So it's not like sports aren't my thing, but you might as well be speaking Klingon to me when you start spitting out statistics at a mile a minute.

"Wait -- who got traded to where and who and the what now?"

But then it recently occurred to me that the people who have the time and energy to memorize statistics, names, and dates are the ones who actually care about the sport enough to do so. Which brought me to a jarring realization: I didn't care enough about any sports! Rather, there wasn't anything about sports in modern day that tempted me to care. We live in an age of constant stimulus and short attention spans. People like fast-paced things. Flashy things. Scandalous things. Me? Not so much. Maybe that's why Tiger Woods' infidelity dominated headlines for months and months. And maybe that's why you can never find a seat at Yard House each time the Lakers play. After being sprinkled with nacho particles and discovering beer stains on my clothing enough times, I decided that maybe this wasn't my thing.


Until now, that is.

I wouldn't say that baseball was a recent discovery. Nor was it so deeply embedded into my childhood. Although, I do remember the thrill of eagerly waiting my turn to bat behind the cage during recess. And I do remember planning to wear jeans the night before going to school just in case I needed to slide into base. I remember baseball being fun. These memories lay dormant in my mind until Ken Burns' serial documentary Baseball woke them up with a sounding alarm. (And, to his credit, my boyfriend Felipe was the one who helped pull the switch.)

Almost an antithesis of what people expect out of sports these days, baseball is not all lights and sounds. If anything, the crack of the ball against the bat might be the only thing that breaks the buzzing silence of a slow summer day at the stadium (depending on the day and who's playing, of course). Games can run long, and the chances of witnessing a fatality or injury are a lot lower than if you were watching a more high-contact sport. But if you know your history and meet the right people, you'll see that baseball is one of the greatest games ever played.

For instance, baseball has thrived and survived through almost every major American war. Soldiers played in their encampments during the Civil War. Players like Christy Mathewson were drafted for the First World War and returned to the game afterward. All-Star games, in which people could vote for which players played, were the result of an effort to bring out more fans during the Great Depression. And practically anybody could play. The earliest teams were made up of merchant groups - barbers, miners, shopkeepers, firemen. I say "practically" because blacks in America were not allowed to play in the major leagues until 1947 (when Jackie Robinson got signed to the Brooklyn Dodgers), but that didn't stop them from forming their own league in which to showcase their best players.

The great Ty Cobb came from rough beginnings and a tough family life. His mother murdered his father when he was younger. Baseball was an anchor for him in his personal life. Babe Ruth was just a kid abandoned by his parents in boarding school when he first began to play. He then proceeded to become the stuff of legend. Baseball had the power to craft a Somebody out of a Nobody.

Christy Mathewson

Babe Ruth

Baseball was and is more than just a sport. Its history is fused with American history, so much so that it's impossible to talk about one without mentioning the other. During wars, it was an escape into normalcy if even for a brief second. For American families, it was something to do together as a unit. For hopeful athletes, it was a way out of the slums. It captured the "can-do" attitude of the American people. Teams inspired hope in their local fan base, who came out to cheer them on, rain or shine. It gave gamblers something to gamble for; journalists something to write about; and kids heroes to look up to. It bridged the gap between young and old, poor and rich, black and white, men and women, and so much more.

As you can see, baseball brings out the history nerd and old soul in me. Hundreds of years may have passed since the first game of baseball was ever played, but the spirit of baseball is something that has remained timeless. That's what makes it so compelling. That's what makes it so unique in my mind. In my very biased opinion, baseball is the only sport in all 23 years of my life that has made me stop and take a look around. Baseball extended its invitation to me to care, and I willingly accepted.

Felipe tells me, "Once a baseball fan, always a baseball fan." Now that I've crossed the threshold, I suppose I'm set for life. Stars and pinstripes forever.

Out of Mind. Be Back Later.

We all go a little mad sometimes.

In Greek mythology, it is told that the world began with Chaos. One huge cloud of noise and confusion. From this tumultuous haze came the gods, demigods, and humans, who then established order in the world. We built cities, developed governments, discovered lands, created art, fought wars, had families. We began to preserve our existence and history through writing to be passed down from one generation to the next. Everything and everyone had its place. As humans evolved, we learned to combat, tame, and vanquish Chaos. Or so it seems. You would think that we'd have relinquished Chaos forever. But the truth is we've only learned to internalize it. We've grown to conceal the very thing that shaped us.

Call it what you will - chaos, madness, anger, uncertainty, delusion, fantasy, fear...It goes by many names, but the sensation is one we are all familiar with. It's a loss of control, a dizziness of life.

We're raised thinking that Chaos is a bad thing and something to be avoided. As a result, when it begins to boil up inside of us, we have no idea how to react. We think there is something wrong with us. We panic. We blame each other to assign some tangible culprit to the discord that lies within.

At this point in my life, it feels as if Chaos is all there is. Like any other person this age - or like any other person, period - I find myself in transition. Recently transplanted a handful of times from one setting to another, I've made a profession out of adjusting. I miss people I've met recently; feel disconnected from those I thought I knew; and am in the process of deciding what's next. At times, it doesn't feel like a whole lot is happening. Coming down from a lot of momentum can make you feel an overwhelming sense of stagnation.

Without things going on around me, my mind often compensates by stirring things up within. If there was ever a competition for worrying, I would probably win the medal for it. That is, if it were something to be rewarded in the first place.

What I need to remind myself is that Chaos breeds new beginnings. I needn't be afraid of what is uncertain but instead embrace the opportunity to create a path toward what I envision, even if it means I can't see very clearly at the moment. A deconstruction of what we're used to can create enough space for us to start over. While my own stubbornness keeps me from seeing the bright side sometimes, I need to let go of my own desire to be in control. And allow life to surprise me.

For now, I'm grateful for the support of those around me. Being at war with yourself can easily feel like an isolated experience, but the people in my life have reminded me time and time again that I don't have to go through it alone, that there's a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, that tomorrow is another day, and there's plenty of time left for change.

The World on a String

Inspiration is ubiquitous. It takes on many forms. It camouflages itself among the mundane and conceals itself behind obstacles. However, it surrounds us, and those of us who access it can find the drive to achieve even the impossible.

Meet Philippe Petit. Occupation: Tight rope walker. If you've watched Man On Wire or read any literature related to it, his name might sound familiar. On August 7, 1974, he stepped onto a steel cable anchored on either side of the Twin Towers in Manhattan. He and a team of others had disguised themselves as businessmen and janitorial staff to enter the building the night before in order to set up the cables. As Philippe walked across, the sidewalks below were teeming with people who were awestruck by the sight of a man crossing the wire 1,368 feet above ground (the Twin Towers were the highest in the world at the time). Months of planning, a handful of broken laws, and some teeth-clenching close calls led to one definitive artistic moment shared by the lucky sum of people watching from below, around, and above. Those who witnessed it were humbled by the notion that they may never see anything quite like this in their lives ever again.

What struck me most about this story was not the death-defying feat that Philippe performed but rather Philippe himself. From the moment he came upon the article about the Twin Towers' construction, he forged an immediate commitment to his dream to walk between them. With a proclivity for innovation and a deep-seated passion for his craft, he was able to share his vision with a team of others who helped him see it through. Now that's salesmanship.

I recently read in The Disney Way that Walt Disney cashed in on his life insurance in order to invest in the development of Disneyland in Orange County, California. His financially conservative brother and business partner Roy Disney clenched his jaw as Walt pushed forward. Regardless, Walt remained riveted to his dream. Today, as we know, Disney is the largest corporate empire in the world.

What is it about prodigies like Disney and Petit that caused them to hold fast to a dream that at one point must have seemed desperate? A dream that must have appeared outright insane? What was it about them that drew in others for the ride and, in the process, convinced them to attempt the untried?

We're raised, for the most part, to differentiate what is tangible from what is inconceivable. Under the influence of reason, we filter the feasible from the futile. But why? Isn't it up to us to define what is achievable and what is not? The spirit of adventure that is so alive in us as children predictably fizzles out by the time we've become full-fledged adults. There is no greater loss than that of this spirit. Both Philippe and Walt took risks that may not have seemed to be worth the cost at the moment, but their persistence and inner motivation pushed them onward.

When our creativity is hampered and our worries overrule our instincts, we automatically scale down our dreams. Not only is this dangerous, but it also a betrayal of the best of ourselves.

On a tour of the Magical Kingdom, one guest commented to a senior tour guide, "Too bad Walt Disney never lived to see his dreams come to actualization."

The tour guide, well-versed in company history and hallmarks, responded, "But he did see it! That's why it's here in the first place."

Upon his descent from the Twin Towers (and after his arrest), the question people wanted to ask Philippe Petit most was, "Why?" Why did he do it? Why did he tight rope walk across the towers and risk his life in the process? His only answer was that there is no why. He simply wanted to.

The French like to say, "L'art pour l'art." Art for art's sake. Do whatever you desire because you desire it. But most importantly, desire it! Hone your passions. Cultivate them. Do not be stymied by "what if's" or "why's." If you want to, you will. Let's not let life get the best of us. Instead, let us project the best of ourselves. You might not need to lay the groundwork for a corporate empire or balance your life on a tightrope miles above, but you can start with not giving up on what you love and want, and most especially not giving up on yourself.

Soundtrack of the day:

Eric Satie - Gnossienne No. 1

Eric Satie - Gymnopodie No. 1

There's No Place Like Home

If there's any word in the English language that tugs at my heartstrings immediately, it's "home." So says Dorothy, there's no place like it.

Ever since I left the nest for the first time, I've been sensitive to what this word actually means. Maybe it's silly to give it so much thought. Home is where the heart is, isn't it? For me, it's been a struggle to define this because my heart, saturated with wanderlust, habitually attaches itself to different places.

In this economic climate, a lot of my friends have participated in the Great Migration Home, with home being our parents' place. With an impotent job market at our generation's fingers, finding solace in our old rooms and familiar settings is both a source of comfort and slight embarrassment. Look at it this way, though. Instead of becoming strangers to our families in the process of "growing up," this migration presents a unique opportunity to reconnect with the people who have loved us, provided for us, and funded us unconditionally through the years.

As you may know, I moved to Maryland/Washington, D.C. after graduating college. I jumped right into a Congressional internship, then took on a year's commitment at a legal non-profit organization as an AmeriCorps outreach coordinator. Music swept me up from underneath my feet like a knight in shining armor, and it has carried me back west for now. I'm very fortunate to be employed in the meantime by both my music and by a writer who I truly respect. So my move back home was not out of financial deprivation. It was a voluntary choice, but it does bring with it some sacrifices. The last time I lived in my parents' house for an extended period of time was at age 17, before moving out for college. Now, at 23, I'm finding myself being told to go to bed, reminded to do the dishes, and scolded not to stay out "too late." Things I left in one place end up finding their way into cupboards or closets at my mom's doing. And once in a while, my mom is overcome with the compulsion to go through my baby pictures with me. I greet these things with a sigh and chuckle. Even though I've spent five years proving to them and myself that I am self-sufficient, my parents will always be parents, no matter what.

I had an emotional parting with Maryland. I have to admit and come to terms with that. Although I'm back in the Golden State, I still miss the Old Line. I know that I didn't grow up in Maryland, but everyone I met through music made me feel right at home. I'm a product of its people, all of whom I hold near and dear to my heart. A dear friend of mine told me that everyone I met there served as mirrors to help me see who I am, which I agreed with wholeheartedly. It was something very special that I will never forget. Maryland is another home for me, and I hope to come back to it soon if only just to visit.

I'm slowly learning that I will experience many senses of home in this lifetime. Having moved around so much, you'd think that I would have learned that already, but I've never been one to take goodbyes well.

I'll let you in on a secret. Home comprises of the people you surround yourself with and has little to do with place. That's why partings are of such sweet sorrow. And that's why you feel attached to locations in the first place - it's the people. It always has been and always will be the people who have touched your life, changed the way you viewed certain things, made you laugh, and shared your hardships that make you feel comfortable being where you are. Home doesn't have to be something you leave or come back to. It's not a fixed entity. Home is something you can build along the way. And you don't have to go over the rainbow to find it.


Soundtrack of the day:

Thelonious Monk - Blue Monk
She & Him - Brand New Shoes
Bon Iver - Flume

Orange Revolution

The Orange Revolution was a massive protest that followed the 2004 presidential election in Ukraine.

Incidentally, the protests made its mark in history in two ways. Other than the aforementioned, it also inspired the name of the color of my new car.

Yes, my new car! It's completely adorable, gas efficient, and did I mention ORANGE? Not that I'm trying to sell it to you. (It's all mine!!!)

The most poignant observation I made was that there is enough storage space in the back to fit tons of musical equipment. All the seats fold down, and the interior of the car is incredibly tall. We'll be mini-touring in no time!

I <3 my Honda Fit.

In repair

I woke up today with the inexplicable, incessant desire to fix something. My cupboard door eventually became the object of this desire, and it now swings open and closed free of squeak. It is said that sometimes people manifest their emotions into habitual acts and actions. Maybe my desire to fix something projects my own need for self-repair.

For reasons beyond what I care to delve into right now, I drove alone to another city last night because I needed a change of scene. I went through every mix CD I burned in the last year and relived the past through songs that once bore significance to me at certain moments in time. So much has changed since I first moved east last summer, for better or for worse. With the move back west happening so soon, I needed some distance from my empty walls and cardboard boxes, even some distance from the people I feel I've grown closest to while living here. Maybe it's a defense mechanism, detaching myself now as to lessen the blow later. Maybe I just needed some perspective, and the only way to get it was to be in a different place so I can look at it all from a different point of view.

Twenty-three is around the corner. These past few weeks have warranted multiple mental meltdowns because of everything piling up. The CD is being reproduced. I'm moving out. My parents are visiting. There are still gigs to be played. Bills to be paid. Lawns to be mowed. Not to mention all the cleaning. On top of all this, I am a chronic (and professional) people-pleaser. Not only does everything need to be done, but it also needs to be done well, and people have to be happy with the results. Otherwise the world will end. Not really, but that's just how my brain functions. It is my worst and most persistent habit.

I read about panic attacks today in a mental health article:

"Panic sufferers often describe themselves as "people pleasers," who find it extremely painful to risk others' dislike or disapproval. They may agree to others' requests, suppress their own opinions, and put the needs of others before their own - sometimes to the point that they almost lose touch with their own wishes and feelings."

This hit too close to home - and, well, it shed some light on my own recent meltdowns. I've made such a habit of putting a lot of heart into my work and relationships with others that it's no wonder I've driven myself slightly mad from trying to keep everything in order and everyone happy. If there is someone in need, I can't help but drop everything and be there for them. Never mind the extensive "To-Do" list.

In Hinduism, it is believed that the universe is cyclically created, then destroyed, then created again. Ever since I read this, I've been fixated on the concept. It came to me with great portent. I am very much the same way. I've never been one of those seemingly consistent people on whom you can always rely to bring the same kind of energy, at least not how I perceive it. As much as I'd like to remain positive and lighthearted all the time, I too subscribe to the human condition. Ever since I can remember, I've had spurts of productivity, energy, and enthusiasm for everything around me. Whatever project I can channel all of this into flourishes. Then, there comes a time when I start to feel like I've exhausted all of my capacities, my creativity, and my mind. All I feel like doing at that point is retracting and disappearing for a while until I recharge. So, keeping with the analogy of the Hindu universe, I create, am destroyed, then re-create perpetually.

One of my old roommates was the executive director for a local non-profit by day but still managed to take weekend trips to the southwest to go horseback riding. I asked her how she stays sane. She responded with, "No matter how many hours you work overtime and how much you bend over backwards for your constituency, they will still be there in need." No matter what, there will ALWAYS be more work to be done. So there is no use trying to get everything done at once. Giving time to yourself is important too.

Having a healthy mind is just as important as having a healthy body and spirit. It's time to fine tune my mentality before it wears out.

Yours in repair,
L

On Mortality

These days, my mom's voice repeatedly trumpets in my head, "Make sure you take care of yourself." Every since I moved to the east coast, my mom has iterated this phrase to me at the end of every phone call. What I once interpreted as relentless nagging has recently begun to take on new meaning. It has become a mantra that I repeat in order to remind myself to breathe and slow down because after all, life is sweet but it's also temporary.

Because my mom's ever-omniscient voice has been ringing in my head more often than not lately, I was immediately attracted to a novel I happened upon at the bookstore. In her novel Traveling With Pomegranates, Sue Monk Kidd contemplates aging through the lens of her relationship with her daughter, Ann. At age fifty, Sue prepares to, as she sees it, exit her womanhood while she observes her twenty-two-year-old daughter take root in it. The author explores the sense of nostalgia for youth and also the acceptance of the inevitable. After reading a few chapters of this book, my mom's reminders and concerns suddenly made sense to me. As someone who is now looking back on her own life, my mother's regrets and past mistakes have translated themselves into concern for me. I now understand the schizophrenic struggle that my mother endures, trying to give me the private world that I have harvested for myself while simultaneously wanting to be an intimate part of it. In a way, I see how she is passing on her duties to me so I can mother myself, so I can take care of myself and be okay if for some one reason or another she can't be around.

This might come as a heavy thought, but I've been meditating on my own mortality. At the spry age of twenty-two, I have been told redundantly by those older than I am that I have "sooo much time." While these comments continuously infuse confidence and keep my morale high, I have to stop to ask, "Do I really have that much time?" Two decades (and a couple years) have lapsed in what now seems like the blink of an eye. Who is to say the next two decades won't follow suit? As my bucket list grows longer, I have slowly come to realize and accept that there may not be enough time for everything that I want to do. I can only do the most with what I have here and now.

Still, I haven't reconciled the feeling of loss I sometimes feel when I think about leaving certain phases of my life behind. Like being a student, for example. My unquenchable thirst for knowledge had a grounds in which to flourish - within lecture halls, through term papers that I begrudgingly wrote with secret relish, tucked into conversations with fellow consorts. I miss it all, and I almost feel that when I graduated, the time for beginnings had passed. I remind myself, though, that as a member of the human species, I am entitled to adaptation. Now the world can be my classroom and everyone around me my fellow students, whether they are aware of it or not.

Every once in a while, I will have a cathartic moment in which I become hyper-conscious of the fact that I have been given something precious: a life to live out how I choose. Life is temporary, meaning everything that life encompasses is also temporary. Material things, pain, even happiness. However, I reject the cult of cynicism that often exploits this observation. Some choose not to grow too attached to anything in fear that it might be lost without warning. After having tried that, I know it's not for me. I'm not happy unless I wear my heart out on my sleeve. It feels stifled otherwise.

I hope that by the close of my life, whenever it will be, whether it is tomorrow or one hundred years from now (taking into account future marvels of technology), I will have lived openly, laughed often, and loved sincerely. Until then (which will hopefully be a long time from now), I'm hoping to be better about listening to Mom's advice and taking care of myself (and others around me) in the meantime.